


Carbonite Copy

by Legendaerie



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Brief Vomit Mention, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Drunken Kissing, Gratuitous Star Wars References, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Social Anxiety, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 12:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4179798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Legendaerie/pseuds/Legendaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither Jean nor Marco are really social butterflies; Jean is not a fan of people in general, and Marco is crippled by self-concious fear and an inferiority complex from his nearly identical older cousin. But a love of Star Wars - especially the prequels - can bring anyone together.</p><p>Pity it's not going to do such a good job at keeping them there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carbonite Copy

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Billy is actually [Beaure](http://shingekinokyojin.wikia.com/wiki/Beaure) \- he's addressed as Billy as a) that was his name in the fandom before his actual name was made canon (a la Boxing Titan vrs Rogue Titan) and b) the commissioner Myfemalegaze and I kind of agreed Billy is just a better name. 
> 
> This is a commission from [Myfemalegaze](http://myfemalegaze.tumblr.com) \- I've been working on it for a while now, so a big shout-out to her for being so patient! Also thanks to Theo for being a sounding board and Betsey for text-RPing with me for Authentic Screencaps that I ended up not using.

 

Before today, Jean has never been early for class a day in his life. He has made it a point, ever since middle school, to skate in just a few steps ahead of the teacher. Except for the handful of times he shared a class with a pre-existing friend, he didn't see the point in sitting still and trying to yell at somebody over the deafening chorus of other people talking. It’s loud and boring and honestly, his sense of time is good enough he’s managed to avoid being late for class practically every time.

But today is a red letter day, in more ways than one. The first of today’s unusual circumstances was how his previous class, Great Narrative Works, had been canceled due to a teacher's laser eye surgery (which Jean quietly considered a shame, Prof. Zoe looked really hot with glasses) and the second was that, in his haste to get out the door this morning, he'd forgotten to bring an umbrella. And of course, the one time he doesn't, the heavens simply must pour an absolute deluge down on campus.

Student newspaper held tentatively over his head like the opening of every terrible romcom ever, Jean pinballs from one building to the next, working his way to the massive building that housed his horticulture class. It's not for an hour, and the class itself isn't exactly his favorite; even though they're well into the twenty-first century, the professor actually bothers to give students assigned seating. Like, with a chart and everything.

But spending an hour in a classroom as it slowly fills with gabbling students is still better than trying to brave his way home with his laptop in his backpack, and attendance (even if you're secretly watching movies on your laptop) is a hefty part of his grade. So, there he heads, shoes squealing in protest with every step - and with every step, he mutters under his breath, "same."

He hip-checks the classroom door open, regretting it instantly as his wallet and keys dig into his thigh, and stares down into the empty rows of chairs of the lecture hall. It's weird. It's almost quiet or peaceful, two words he'd never associate with school before this. He feels almost as though he shouldn’t be here, especially when the young man just a couple rows away gives him a startled look. Brief, fleeting, and almost-bird like in his hesitance, his classmate’s head snaps back around to face forward and down at his own desk.

Yep, definitely weird.

Jean hefts his backpack into a random chair and digs out a folder for the seating chart. He's never had to actually look at it before, instead always just tumbled into place, slotting into the crowd of his peers like a missing tooth. He can guess the basic area, yeah, but picking out the actual numbered seat?

It's been a long day already, and after staring at the graph for a grand total of fifteen seconds, Jean swears and trots back up the aisle stairs to the only other occupied seat in the room.

"Hey," he taps the man on his shoulder - a shoulder that jumps, startled, away from him as its owner stares up at him with shocked, dark brown eyes.

"Sorry?" The stranger pulls out his earbuds, letting them drop on the desk beside his open laptop. "Um--"

"How does this chart work?" Impatient, he flips the paper into the stranger's line of sight. The man accepts it carefully, spreading it out on his desk and turning it around once or twice. His nose scrunches up, distorting the dense cluster of freckles spread on his skin. They're dark, large and everywhere, his cheeks and forehead and chin - hell, even some in the corner of his eye that wrinkles as he frowns. It makes Jean think of rain on the sidewalk, or splatters of ink. Paranoia flares through him for a moment - does he have something due in art class tomorrow?

"N-name?"

"Kirstein. K-I-R." He taps the little square near the middle with his initials on it. As Jean watches, still a little damp and more than a little emotionally done with today, the man slowly begins to blush under his stare. Jean shifts his weight - the man shrinks in on himself. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Jean makes a point of looking away. Geez, timid much?

"Okay, you're um... five rows ahead of me and a chair to the right."

Jean grunts and retrieves his paper - when he looks back up, the man's offering a shy smile but still won't meet his eyes. Jean doesn't return the gesture. He's been up since seven that morning, and after being awake for five or more hours Jean's face is stuck in a low-key scowl.

He does, however, manage a thanks, and he's shuffling awkwardly into his seat before hears a reply.

"You, um... you were watching Star Wars during our last lecture, weren't you?"

Jean throws an arm across the back of his chair and flicks a momentary glance backwards, backpack heavy on the tops of his thighs. It had just been a clip from Attack of the Clones - he’d wanted the lighting reference from the duel with Dooku, and then had started looking up more and more scenes as the nostalgia hit him. "Yeah?"

"I didn't think anyone else would watch the prequels voluntarily. That's all."

Now, under most circumstances Jean would have brightened up at that; he was a 90's kind of kid, raised on Deep Space Nine, and he'd snuck his way into at least three showings of The Phantom Menace when it first came out in theatres. But, as he'd mentioned before, it was a red letter day - and all Jean could do was shrug in reply and bury his head in his arms on his desk.

Maybe the rain will let up by the time his class is over.

 

* * *

 

 “Make any friends today?”

Marco heaves both a sigh and his backpack onto the couch, breathing in the faintly dusty smell of old upholstery when he belly-flops onto the furniture. “What makes you think that?” he asks, his words muffled slightly.

“Your cheeks are still a little red,” and Billy’s hand grabs Marco’s ankle and pulls him askew. Of course Marco’s self-conscious blush lingered all the way home, aided by the chill and the rain that washed off all his concealer. Marco snorts into the cushions as Billy continues. “Scoot, I wanna watch some RvB.”

Marco relents and allows his cousin to share the space on the couch, just like he’s relented and let Billy move into Marco’s one and a half-bedroom apartment when his fiance kicked him out. It’s not exactly like how they grew up in the same town, casually bouncing between the houses of relatives for family sleepovers. But Billy pays his share of the rent, and usually a little more on top of that thanks to his coffee shop job, so Marco can’t complain. Even if he wanted to. Which would be very selfish of him, so he doesn’t.

“Kind of,” Marco relents, listening to the gentle chime of Billy’s laptop waking up. “There’s a guy who sits a few rows in front of me in my hort class. He asked me where he sat.”

“That’s nice,” Billy comments, staring down a blunt nose at his laptop screen. Marco knows they have the same features, he’s seen it in photos - they could be twins, almost, if Marco’s face wasn’t stained with so many spots. Freckles, lentigos, whatever they are, they’ve plagued him since he was a child. And yeah, it’s not as bad as it used to be but it still makes Marco squirm whenever people stare at him too long. He still has nightmares of sleepovers from his childhood, waking up to obscene constellations scrawled on his face with sharpie markers, scrubbing them off until he cried--

Marco buries his face deeper into the cushion, like he's an ostrich and can hide from the memories in the furniture. He's elbowed gently aside as his cousin plugs in some headphones and folds himself into a comfortable position, and Marco decides to surrender the couch entirely.

His room gives him more solitude anyway.

There, Marco tucks himself into his desk and goes through his email, deleting seas upon seas of spam that won't leave him alone, somehow, no matter how many times he hits 'unsubscribe.' But the whole time, his mind keeps jumping back to the boy with the undercut. He'd seen him from the back for a month now, had gotten used to the little glimpse he'd catch of the scowling face as he slipped in moments before the professor started talking. From what he could see - and confirmed today - the guy was actually kind of cute, and from his vantage point Marco had watched the shaven scalp darken as it grew from age and neglect. And just a few days ago, Marco had managed to catch a good section of The Phantom Menace which, he'll only admit now that he's grown, probably benefited from the lack of audio for some of the awkwardly written banter.

It's still too soon to tell, but maybe - Marco pictures the man he only really knows as KIR, with his pretty light brown eyes that didn't linger on Marco's face for too long - they could end up being friends.

"I'm ordering Chinese," Billy calls from the living room. "You want anything?"

"Um,” Marco draws out the sound as he thinks, snapped out of his shy reverie. “I’d take some Potstickers, please. Two orders if you're paying."

He gets a grunt in reply which he translates to ‘tips were bad on today’s shift and I don’t feel like splurging’ and Marco fishes out his wallet, thumbs out the correct change. Yeah, it's a little hasty but it could happen. He'd like to try, at least. Fight for something, for someone, even if it makes him feel a little uncomfortable. No pain, no gain, right?

 

* * *

 

Jean is absolutely feeling the pain today. Why the fuck can't he learn to not stay up until three in the morning on a school night because he spent all day procrastinating? Especially when three days of the week he has to get up at seven in the morning. Good grief.

It's his own damn fault, really. He'd stayed out on campus two days before, when the weather had been shit, and he could have spent that time getting ahead on his studies. But of course, he ended up talking to his friend Thomas on Skype nearly the whole time, hearing about the latest small-town gossip and relating the truth about college as according to Jean. Thomas was in the same year as Jean but hadn’t gone on to college - instead opting to work until he could afford going to school. It was great to catch up, of course, but then he'd had to stay up late last night to work on homework.

So when he opens the door to his hort class and sees the professor standing there, class eerily silent around him, Jean’s temper flares at the same time as his blush. He’s almost ready to turn around and storm back home, but the weight of all those judgemental eyes, only fuels his determination. Shoulders squared - but not too much, the old fart is a traditional type who expects the appearance of respect from his students - Jean descends the stairs and shuffles sideways until he can fold himself into his seat.

The movement makes a little scrap of paper flutter from the desk to the ground - Jean frowns, contorts in his seat until he can get the toe of his shoe on the paper, and subtly drag it towards him. Ducking down to get his laptop out of his back, he snatches up the note at the same time.

_Let me know if you want to study together or something. bottm@sina.edu_

Jean jerks his head backwards and aims a sharp look up into the seats behind him. Sure enough, up near the top, the freckled boy from earlier is watching him. When their eyes meet, he sinks into his chair shyly, hiding partially behind his laptop screen. Kind of cute, if Jean lets himself think about it for a moment.

He rolls his eyes and turns back around, booting up his computer and tuning into the the professor’s lecture as he waited. Really, he worked in the greenhouses of his high school’s FFA chapter for three years, and he was on the state Horticulture and Forestry teams. He knows his plants already. He’s not worried.

That being said, however…

 

To: bodtm@sina.edu  
From: jkirstch@sina.edu  
Date: 10-03-11, 4:40 pm  
Subject: sup?

_so are you offering me your notes or something?._

 

He slides the tip of his finger along his trackpad, cursor hovering over the file for Attack of the Clones considerately as he reflects on the guy six rows back and one seat over. If Jean was actually asked for his opinion on the Star Wars movies, he’d probably pick the original trilogy (who wouldn’t?) as superior for cultural relevance alone, but the prequels were what he grew up watching. They had a certain charm to them, and he’d fight anyone who harassed him for liking them. And he had on more than one occasion, actually. It’s how he’d met Thomas back in middle school.

Once he plugs in his headphones, however, all hesitation is gone, and he immerses himself in the opening scenes of the second film. He does, however, have the decency to divide the screen between the movie and his internet browser, and that’s how he sees the reply ping into his inbox right about the time two very familiar Jedi step into an elevator.

  

To: jkirstch@sina.edu  
From: bodtm@sina.edu  
Date: 10-03-11, 4:43 pm  
Subject: RE: sup?

_well, if you want them, i can email them to you… but i was also asking if you wanted to compare notes and stuff! we could drill each other on the material or something, if that’s a thing that works for you. i’m marco, by the way. :)_

 

Jean tilts his laptop screen until he can see the back rows in the reflection. Bodtm aka Marco is watching the lecture with a little line of concentration between his brows - looks like of the two of them, Jean would probably benefit less. Unless the exams are insanely difficult, of course.

But it’s the final minutes of class and Jean fires off a reply before closing his laptop with a gentle clap.

 

To: bodtm@sina.edu  
From: jkirstch@sina.edu  
Date: 10-03-11, 4:55 pm  
Subject: RE: RE: sup?

_might take you up on that later. i’m jean. nice to meet you. side note, you ever read any of the expanded universe star wars books?_

 

Jean catches his eye when he stands up and turns to leave; there’s a flurry of students between them, and Marco doesn’t hold his gaze for long. But he does smile afterwards, as if he was still glad to have seen him, and it makes Jean curious, in the way it makes him hurry up to try to catch Marco before he vanished. But he’s too slow of course, so Jean just heaves a sigh and heads home.

 

* * *

 

To: jkirstch@sina.edu  
From: bodtm@sina.edu  
Date: 10-07-11, 12:27 pm  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE:

_that’s true, but i still kind of like the idea that windu’s lightsaber reflected his fighting style and how it runs a little close to the dark side. blue and red lightsabers are both accepted in canon, so i like the fact that a character who, at least in the novel shatterpoint, brushes with the dark side should have a color that’s in between them._

_but i also just really like samuel l jackson on principle, ha ha :) i think my favorite role of his is when he’s in pulp fic_

 

“Are you emailing that guy again?”

Marco’s entire body jolts when Billy shakes his shoulder, and he fights to urge to collapse down the window of his browser. Not that his cousin really seems to care - his eyes don’t linger on the screen for long before returning to Marco’s face. “Yes?”

“Shouldn’t you give him your number by now? Or maybe Skype?” Billy’s dark brown eyes are sharp, piercing, but not judgmental. Marco shrugs.

“I’m fine with things as they are, I guess. Maybe if it comes up.”

Billy crosses his arms. “Have you even spoken to him face-to-face since that time in the rain?”

His mind immediately jumps to last week, when Marco had ducked around the nearest corner and watched, slightly out of breath, as Jean walked away. “That’s-- that’s none of your business,” and then Marco got an elbow to the stomach as Billy forces his way between his cousin and his desk. “Wait, stop! What are you--”

“Oh, come on, I’m just giving him your number. You’re too shy. More people like you than you know.” His cousin’s voice is light and teasing, but Marco clings to his cousin’s free arm anyway.

“Come on, just let me set the pace with his guy?”

“If I let you take this at your own pace, you’ll never go anywhere. There.” There’s a click with terrifying finality, then Billy steps away and closes the laptop. “Thank me later. And you better get going, you’re late for class.”

Marco’s mouth drops open in shock, but it’s not worth it to protest; not when Billy is almost always right, anyway, and especially about Marco being late. So he packs his backpack with his laptop, charger cable, and books, and heads out the door in record time even if his stomach makes a hungry little twist of protest halfway there.

But about a third of the way to class, his phone buzzes with an unfamiliar number and he very nearly stops dead in the middle of the street

 

 _Text: (xxx)xxx-xxxx  
_ _who the fuck hasn’t seen pulp fiction tho (its jean) and yeah sam j is..._

 

He doesn’t know whether to kill Billy or thank him, but he does end up making it out of the road. Looking up just once to make sure he’s headed the right way, Marco taps on the message and reads the full thing.

 

 _who the fuck hasn’t seen pulp_  
_fiction tho (its jean) and yeah_  
_sam j is an absolute boss._  
_he owned that motherfucker_  
_in episode ii and this is coming_  
_from a guy who really likes  
_ _the fetts_

 

_Hi Jean!_

 

Should he tell him his cousin gave Jean the number? Or does that make him sound too pathetic? Marco pulls on the door to the science building, stopping and readjusting his center of gravity when the door sticks and he has to push harder than expected.

 

 _I kind of want to ask if_  
_you’ve ever seen the robot_  
_chicken episode/clip that’s_  
_centered on boba fett and_  
_han solo? But it’s a little…_

 

A trio of dots pop up as Marco enters the lecture hall for horticulture, and his heart skips a beat when he realizes this means Jean is, somewhere, staring at his phone as well. He swallows, slightly misjudges where he’s walking, and nearly trips down the stairs.

 

_gay?_

 

_Ha ha, you could say that!_

 

 _dude i love that episode even_  
_if i can never watch the_  
_movie the same way again_

 

 _I’m glad! I think? I mean,_  
_it’s good that you liked it,  
_ _so…_

 

For one of the first times in a long while, Marco doesn’t really notice the other people filing into the classroom until it’s nearly full. And even then, he’s only just getting his laptop out when he sees Jean enter the classroom, phone still in hand. Their eyes meet for a fleeting second, and Marco feels his face go absolutely scarlet when Jean’s mouth twitches in a smile before he looks away again, focused on getting to his seat. Marco sits low in his chair for the first several minutes of lecture, hiding his face behind his laptop and his hands.

* * *

 

 

 _Are you done with that paper_  
_yet?? Or are you still  
_ _polishing it?_

_bro i printed that shit off last  
_ _night its done its dead n buried  
_ _as far as im concerned_

_why_

 

He types the last word somewhat offhand as he waits in the cafe line, earbuds still plugged in but silent and draped over the back of his neck in the closest he comes to curtesy. To be honest, it’s a little weird to communicate with someone almost entirely via text when they are in the same class three days a week, but Jean never gets there early and Marco never stays late. It’s all right, though. He can still catch glimpses of Marco occasionally in the glare of his laptop screen, and he seems to spend a lot of the lecture watching movies from a distance over Jean’s shoulder, so.

_Well, I’m going to a Halloween  
party with my cousin in a couple  
weeks and I was wondering_  
_if you want to come with me?_  
_There’ll be free food & drinks_  
_and everyone will be dressed_  
_up. :) No pressure though!_

_hmmm_

 

“Caramel latte and a breakfast wrap, extra spicy, flour wrap,” and he flashes his student ID at the same time he forks over his debit card, body on autopilot while his mind flips through possible scenarios like flashcards. He could go and get some help from a theatre minor buddy with his makeup, or he could go in a shitty storebought costume.

The face he makes at the cashier when he gets his receipt back has nothing to do with the price, incidentally, and everything to do with Jean imagining remembering a certain cowboy outfit from years past that neglected to mention that they were assless chaps. Needless to say that Angry Birds boxers didn’t fly very well with his getup.

  

_I think im free that weekend_

 

Moments after he hits send and sidesteps out of line, Jean’s sharp ears catch the chirp of a cell phone. His eyes flick towards the door and his breath catches for a moment in surprise and anticipation. It’s Marco, eyes glued to his phone and his cheeks curving up in a little grin that makes Jean’s heart flutter in his chest, heart beats feeling more like wingbeats as he glides around to the back of the line, boxing the brunet in. Not that the flimsy line dividers or the tiny little blonde girl in front of Marco would be much of an obstacle if he really wanted to leave, but.

Jean’s own phone is muted, thanks to his headphones - he skims the message, eyes still on the back of Marco’s head and waiting to see if the brunet will notice him before he, too, is trapped in by the line dividers.

_Oh, sweet! I'll be going as Fred_  
_Weasley with_ _my cousin.  
So keep an eye out for the _  
_redhead in a suit!_

_If you go, i mean_

_harry potter fans huh?_

 

The blonde haired lady shuffles forward - Jean sidesteps out of line, darting to the side and finally into Marco’s direct line of sight. The smile falters, fades and dark brown eyes dart Jean’s way. Jean leans forward, knees locked and posture cocky just as Marco looks up, and their noses are mere inches apart for a brief moment. And then Marco’s eyes go wide with recognition and Jean falls back into his normal posture, thumb hooked in his pant’s front side pocket.

“G’morning,” he greets his friend.

“Morning,” Marco breathes, glancing down and rubbing the back of his neck. “I was-- j-just texting you.”

“I know.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He’s starting to smile again, that same little concealed grin he was wearing earlier, and his eyes meet Jean’s every once in a while. “Um… good morning. Right?”

“Sure. So,” and Jean steps forward, Marco following and closing the gap in the line in front of him. “Not Star Wars?”

“No, sorry. I, um… it’s not that I wouldn’t want to, but it’s kind of a. It’s a thing I do? With my cousin? And it’s his friend’s party, so you know. Should probably go ahead and wear the costume.”

Jean’s eyebrows creep together, leaving little stitches of confusion in his forehead. “I think I follow? Hang on,” he adds, catching his order number called over the intercom.

When he returns, coffee in hand and his wrap tucked in his backpack for later, Marco’s at the register and looks only a little more settled. He still avoids looking at the cashier, folding up coins inside his receipt and his dollar bills, shoving the whole thing in his wallet indiscriminately. But when he greets Jean, his smile seems a little less tense than the one he offered with his money to the cashier.

“You got time?” Jean jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the lounge area - not that he expects a lot, really, and he probably should be trying to get some sketching done in his brief break before two back-to-back power hours classes. But Marco shakes his head.

“No, sorry. I’ve got one more midterm today, and I kind of really need to study.”

“Oh, really? What’s it on?”

“Calculus.”

Jean makes a loud, choking gag. “God, I’m sorry. I’m useless with numbers.” Which isn’t exactly true, he’s a B average in that subject, but he just kind of hates math on principle as someone who favored the arts in high school. He takes another sip, shrugs, and turns to walk away. “Good luck, I guess.”

“Jean, wait.”

He almost doesn’t stop because Marco says it wrong - he calls him _‘Gene’_ and it strikes a little chord of confusion in the back of his mind - but he still meets Marco’s gaze. The brunet visibly braces himself.

“I… I do want to hang out with you some other time though. Okay? I know I’m not… really… usually available. But I’d make time for you.” Marco’s eyes jump away from Jean’s face every few words, but his smile looks sincere. “If you wanted.”

 “I might. Want that, I mean.” Jean flashes a smile of his own, one that lingers a little too long when Marco returns it. Long enough that the barista clears their throat for Marco to move up in the line. And by that time, well, he doesn’t really feel like correcting Marco anymore.

 

* * *

 

“He didn’t say what he was going to be dressed up as?”

Billy’s flopped on the couch, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he blinks his way into his contact lenses. They’re both sacrificing some comfort in order to match their costumes tonight - Billy’s going without his glasses and Marco’s trying to layer concealer on over his stark freckles. He’s been at it with a wedge sponge and two different sticks of flesh-colored gunk for near twenty minutes and he’s only managed to fade them. It’s still an improvement that soothes him, and he calls an answer into the mirror.

“He just said that I’d know it was him.”

“Even though you’ve not really met face to face more than… what, twice?”

Marco doesn’t have to see Billy’s face to know what expression he’s wearing - he just has to frown and his reflection relates everything Billy’s voice cannot. “You know I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, I know.” A hand thumps on the doorframe, then Billy fumbles his way into Marco’s line of sight, eyes glassy with tears as he blinks wetly. “I also know you’ve probably been avoiding him.”

Marco knows his silence is answer enough. He dumps powder on a fluffy pad and smashes it against his face like he’d watched in the video. It get up his nose, dusty & floral like his grandmother’s living room, and he sneezes into the sink. Of course he likes Jean, he does - the guy is offbeat, kind of cute, kind of _really_ cute, the frightening kind of attractive that creeps up on a person - and is interested in a lot of the same things as Marco. But he’s still not that confident talking to people face-to-face.

“I’m not giving up on you,” Billy insists, and prods his cousin in the side before wrapping a wig cap around his fingers. “Come here.”

Marco leans forward as Billy stretches the elastic netting over his hair, resigning himself to the mild tug as Billy tucks stray locks into the cap. When he looks up, he sees his weary face reflected in Billy’s eager, brilliant brown eyes.

“You are gonna talk to Jean tonight, all right?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s gonna like you.”

“He’s gonna like Fred Weasley--”

“As played, impeccably, by you.” Billy claps Marco’s cheeks, hands coming away with a little bit of extra powder on them. “I have the utter faith in your performance tonight.”

As Billy gives his own hair the same treatment and settles the short ginger wig on top, Marco tries to believe what his cousin prophesied. He is, honestly, looking forward to tonight, even if he doesn’t act like it. He’s excited in his own way, which just happens to be accompanied by clammy palms and heart palpitations.

Billy helps him into his own wig, accidentally stabbing him with a hairpin only once, and when it’s all done Billy links arms with him and stares into the mirror.

“See? Our own mothers could barely tell us apart!” And it’s true. Marco squints his eyes just a little, and the slight loss in focus is all he needs to blur his concealed freckles into oblivion. The foundation sits heavy on his skin, but it does the job well, and he feels a little bit of the tension in his shoulders face. For someone who doesn’t always like to be himself, it’s kind of cool to be someone else for a change.

“Now, come on, you’ll feel better if we’re the first people at Boris’ place. Not so many new people all at once.” Billy takes advantage of their linked arms to pull Marco out of the bathroom, which is already starting to feel a little warm under all their layers of clothes.

“Are you really being considerate, or do you just want a better parking space?”

Marco had meant it to come out as playful, but the look Billy throws him is honestly hurt. “Give me some credit, Marco. I do want you to have a good time.”

“... Sorry.”

“Ah, damn it. Don’t make that face! It’s fine. Got everything?”

Marco pats his pockets as a last minute check. “Yep.”

“All right. Flame on!”

Fishing out his phone as his cousin locks the door to their apartment, Marco sends Jean a fast text.

 

_We’re headed out the door!  
See you soon and all that! :D_

 

A reply isn’t long in coming, interrupting him as he’s buckling himself into the front passenger seat.

 

_already?_

 

_Early bird gets the good  
parking!_

  
_unless u take the bus bc_  
_u plan on getting totally_  
_fucked up at a strangers_  
_party_

 

_:(_

 

_r u judging me for drinking_

 

 _...Not really. I’m gonna drink_  
_too so i can’t really point_  
_fingers._

 

_oh_

_ohhhhhhhh_

 

_?????_

 

“Marco, you’re making faces. You texting your boo?” Billy grins out the windshield, smoothing braking into a turn.

“He’s not my-- oh no, was that a Halloween joke?”

Billy’s laugh rings out in the inclosed space of the car, and Marco resists the urge to look at his phone again as it purrs a text notification into his palm.

“You are _terrible_.”

“In today’s political and socio-economical climate,” Billy spouts, deepening his voice into a fake newscaster pitch, “a sense of humor is paramount to one’s mental health.”

Marco shifts around in his seat and turns back to Jean’s reply.

 

 _i didnt mean u r the ‘stranger’_  
_if that’s what the face is about_

_Ohhhhhhhh :)_

 

Marco grins as he sends back another cheerful emoji.

 

 _Thanks for clarifying that! I  
_ _certainly hope we’re at least  
_ _friends by now!_

 

“Put your phone away for a second, Freddy,” and Billy/George elbows his cousin/pretend twin in the side. “You’re probably gonna be pounding down some of Boris’ finest liquor, so you have to at least meet the guy. Scoot.”

Marco reluctantly pockets his phone and follows his cousin across the lawn to a massive, stately looking building that just oozes old money. “This is his… co-op house?”

“Yep. Nice place, isn’t it? I rushed for it back when I was an undergrad, but I didn’t get in. Made some friends, though, like Boris. Hey, Boris!” Billy calls into the intercom outside the glass-paned double doors. “It’s the Weasleys.”

The light-haired man that answers the door a minute later is only partially dressed, Slytherin-colored tie thrown over his shoulder as he levels serious light brown eyes at Billy.

“I expected you to be Harry.”

“Couldn’t get it together in time, sorry,” and Billy throws an arm over Marco’s shoulder. “Also, I couldn’t pass up matching with my little cousin! Marco, this is Boris. Or, uh, Fred, this is Draco Malfoy.”

Boris rolls his eyes. “Charmed to meet you, Marco. Or Weasley. Whatever.” He turns Billy’s way, much to Marco’s quiet relief. “I've been practicing my _Potter_ voice all afternoon, you should know. Still, it’s good to see you. You can help out with the punch or something since you’re here too early.”

“Nothing too messy?” The eagerness to help still shines out of his cousin’s face as Marco follows Boris to where he assumes is the kitchen, and the look Boris throws Billy seems fond for all his Malfoy-esque frowning.

“We have some extra aprons if you want them. Marlowe’s already hard at work - ask him where things are if you need to.”

Marco slips his phone out of his pocket half by habit, but the look Billy throws him makes him tuck it back away without opening the message Jean sent him. He does catch a little glimpse of a message along the lines of “ _well duh_ ” and it makes him smile.

The mess of the kitchen that greets them, however, wipes most of that expression away. “Well,” Billy sighs as he unpins his wig and hangs it up on the nearby, apron-festooned coat rack, “now I’m really glad I got here early. You purebloods don’t seem to know how to get your hands dirty, do you?”

A tall, black-haired man at the sink shoots Billy a grimy look that his cousin misses entirely. Marco pastes on a polite smile and mimics his cousin’s actions, hanging up his suit jacket in favor of an apron. At least it’ll help burn off all his nervous energy until Jean gets here.

 

* * *

 

Jean kind of feels like he’s going to have to apologise to his hair when the night is through, but his humanoid costume of Greedo came together better than he expected. Blond undercut gelled up into a wide mohawk and spray tinted green, with round mirrored sunglasses and a yellow vest, helped sell the look. But what really did it was the complex green-colored make-up his friend Mina had done for him. He was happy because it looked amazing, she was happy because it was counting for extra credit in her stage make-up class; kind of a win-win scenario for everyone. Except maybe for his clothing - there were little smudges of mossy green along his turtleneck collar, and he was not looking forward to trying to get those stains out later. Especially since he’d probably be doing it hungover. Gross.

Still, for the moment, it’s worth it. Jean feels like he looks cool - or as cool as anyone can really look in a Star Wars costume cobbled together on a student’s budget - and walks up to the co-op house with confidence. Said confidence kind of evaporates when a guy who looks suspiciously like a hired bouncer stares him down.

“Not so fast,” the guy rumbles. “Who invited you?”

“Uh, Marco Bodt?” Jean sidesteps as a pair of women, both dressed in bright orange prison jumpsuits, slip inside without so much as a blink from the bouncer. Said bouncer makes a show of checking a clipboard that Jean can tell from here is only covered in crude drawings of dicks.

“Sorry, dude. You gotta know somebody in Mitras to get in. Mister Butt is not in Mitras.”

At that exact moment, a rather familiar looking ginger-haired man in a suit walks up, carrying an ice bag over his shoulder. He gives Jean an exaggerated once over with warm, pleasant brown eyes, and the obvious appreciation on his face makes Jean’s ears hot under all his makeup.

“It’s fine, Reiner. Greedo’s good to go.”

“Whatever,” and the blond moves to the side to let them pass, immediately barring the next college students from entering and probably giving them the same treatment. Jean frowns over his shoulder and falls into step behind his savior.

“Oh, don’t hold it too much against him. Reiner’s a total sweetheart. But after what happened a couple years ago, Mitras got a little choosy about who they let into their parties. You, uh,” and the ginger gives Jean another close look, this one a little less raunchy. “You probably weren’t around for it. Anyway, I gotta go get this ice to a cooler. See you around, space pants!”

It’s not until the man is out of sight that Marco’s self-description from earlier springs into Jean’s mind. Was that--? It could have been, maybe. Jean’s never seen Marco that friendly, but it _is_ a party. Maybe he acts differently with booze?

In any case, Jean fires off a “ _where u at_ ” text and finds the nearest wall to lurk against. Careful not to actually let his skin touch the presumably white walls, Jean takes in his surroundings. It’s an interesting mix of dim, club-like lighting in a mansion-like building with obviously nice decor. He’s almost willing to bet his schoolbooks that the chandelier hanging in the main hallway, carefully illuminated with red and blue tinted bulbs that cast trembling violet-white stars on the ceiling, is made from actual glass.

People walk by in costumes falling off them in that early, sloppy-drunk state that makes Jean nostalgic for high school, and shortly he gets a text from Marco that reads “ _in the kitchen! :D are you here?_ ” He wanders down a couple hallways before coming to the edge of the only well-lit room he’s found so far, with a low level of traffic passing through. The windows are open to keep the kitchen cool as another man with bright orange hair stirs something on the stove. He’s dressed identically to the one that let Jean in, but there’s something different in the way he shies away from a guest ladeling spiced cider into a cup.

Jean texts back “look behind you” and waits. After a moment, the man at the stove pushes his apron to the side and pulls his phone out of his pants pocket, then turns around. His face is more plain that Jean remembers it being, but the flash of honest joy - bordering on relief - is one he knows. Wants to know better, if he’s honest with himself.

Come on, Kirstein. Be cool.

“I almost didn’t recognise you,” Jean taunts, crossing the room to stand by the stove with Marco. “Surrounded by this many people outside of class, I mean.”

“Yeah, it’s a little much. But I’m happy to be useful.”

Jean takes a whiff of the large pot Marco is managing - it’s a vat of hot chocolate, sharp at the edges with the distinct scent of vodka. “So were you the one carrying ice earlier? Space pants?”

“Space--? Oh,” and Marco shakes his head. “No, I bet you met my cousin Billy. We look really, um, similar. Hence the Weasley twin costumes.”

“Hence,” Jean echoes, straight-faced even as he bites the inside of his lip to keep from chuckling. He doesn’t push the point further, though, just grabs the nearest, cleanest looking spoon and tastes the hot chocolate. It’s just the right kind of warm and sweet, kind of like the rather flustered looking man whose personal space he’s invading. Jean can just barely make out a blush under Marco’s foundation, but his ears are practically _glowing_ red.

“Needs more booze,” Jean concludes. “Got any extra cinnamon vodka? Fireball? Or whatever you used in the spiced cider?”

“Um… yeah. I’ve been using some, um, whipped cream vodka though?” Marco gestures towards a half-full bottle of the stuff, but he doesn’t take the opportunity to step away from Jean. It feels like progress, really, even if Marco doesn’t hold eye contact for very long.

“Let me get this,” and Jean spoons some of the drink into a cup, then adds a splash of Fireball, swirls it around and takes a sip. “Try this - you drink, right?”

“Y-yeah,” and Marco takes the cup, stares at it for a moment; then rather deliberately takes a sip from the same place Jean had. When their eyes meet over the rim of the cup for one fleeting moment, Jean feels a flutter of emotion that warms him more than the drink could.

“It’s good--” he clears his throat, suddenly finding it hoarse and low, and tries again. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

“Might go a little easy on the cinnamon,” Marco coughs, turning back to the stovetop. “But I suppose it could use a little more alcohol.”

They repeat the process again, this time with the whipped cream vodka - and when someone makes a fuss somewhere over his shoulder, Jean only shoots them a vague glare before his attention snaps back to Marco. With his coaxing, they perfect the hot cocoa and move it to a back burner to stay warm; from there, they roam around the kitchen, taking covert (and sanitary, Jean insists on new spoons and rinsing the cup after every drink) tastes of the other pre-mixed drinks and inventing a few of their own. Like this, Jean feels like he can protect Marco from the prying eyes of the rest of the party, even if the heat of the drinks and the kitchen and his own beating heart is starting to make his makeup uncomfortable.

Sometime well past one in the morning, Marco’s forehead is resting against Jean’s shoulder as he giggles after Jean’s performance of a particularly scathing JonTron review, and Jean never wants him to leave. And of course that’s the exact moment some stranger pops their head into the kitchen and demand’s Marco’s - yes, specifically Marco’s - help in refilling something somewhere.

“I’ll be... I’ll be right back, so don’t go far. Okay, Jean?” And Marco heaves a sigh before he leans away, brown eyes so dark and warm that for a moment, Jean forgets where he is. Wants to step in and enclose Marco in the corner by the cabinets, one hand on either side of his hips; to wrap Marco’s legs around his waist if Marco will let him, and kiss him absolutely senseless.

But he waits too long to even tell Marco how to correctly say his name, tongue-tied and suddenly afraid, and Marco slips away on his errand, ginger hair vanishing into the distance. Jean stares at the floor where Marco stood moments before, shakes his head and comes to a conclusion.

He’s not going to wait anymore.

The cup they’d been sharing all evening is still close by - he pours in a couple shots worth of straight whiskey and chugs it, too drunk to really care how some of it misses his mouth and washes away some of the green on his chin. And now he’s _really_ too drunk, has to press his lips together in a line and breathe until he knows he isn’t going to throw up, and heads out into the party to find Marco.

It speaks to how focused he’s been all night that the music thumping through the house takes him by surprise - it’s darker now, more chaotic than it was when he arrived, and even the hallway is packed with people. Jean shakes his head to clear it, breathes in deep through his nose to brace himself - and when a certain ginger-wigged man passes by, he grabs him by the shoulder and pulls them together.

The kiss comes first, before any words - a kiss a long time in coming, even though his partner is rigid under his touch at first. The kiss is sloppy, drunk, but electric at the same time, as arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him even closer. The last coherent thought Jean has is of fretting about getting his makeup all over Marco’s clothes, and then he tastes the other man’s mouth and thinks of nothing else for a long moment.

When his back hits the nearest wall, Jean takes in the opportunity to gasp out words he’s been meaning to say all evening. “It’s Jean, by the way,” and he slurs his own name a bit but the point still comes across. “ _Zhhaahhn_.”

“John?”

“Close enough,” and he’s drawn back in for more kisses, more silent conversations between lips and teeth and tongues. He’s surprised by the ferocity behind them; he didn’t expect this strong of a reaction, really, but he can’t really find that as a reason to complain. Especially not when he’s dragged into a side room by the front loops of his pants, and wow, ok. Maybe he just doesn’t care; it feels so goddamn good and that’s all he can really focus on.

Just the physical things alone are enough to make him groan into the kiss as he’s pinned against the wall - his blood is practically simmering with hormones and alcohol, a toxic elixir that makes him brave, and desperate, and dangerous. He fumbles downwards blindly until he finds his partner’s thigh and pulls it up and closer, bringing their hips together and grinning at the rewarding moan that follows. Kind of sounds like he wasn't the only one thinking about doing this most of the night, and maybe before that. Sure, they've not spoken face-to-face much but Marco is still damn cute in both body and spirit.

Warm hands are sliding up the front of his shirt, digging fingernails lightly into his ribcage, and he has to pull away to gasp for air as his body bucks of its own volition under the pleasantly rough treatment. Thoughts of anything other than the moment are effectively dissolved, and Jean shudders.

Dark brown eyes regard him with amusement, lust, and just a hint of shyness. “That good for you?”

“Yeah, fine, it’s great,” Jean babbles, saved from answering further questions as he’s kissed senseless again. The hands that slide across his skin again are firm, and hot, and persistent in a way that appeals to him. It’s not what he’d imagined from Marco - and, frankly, he’d imagined things once or twice - but it’s still amazing. Delicious, even, when teeth tug gently at his lower lip and suck

“Pity you’re so green,” that low, sultry voice soothes him, punctuated by heaving breathing and the distant thump of the music from the party. “Otherwise I’d wreck that pretty jawline of yours.”

“Aww,” Jean means to drawl, but it comes out more like a moan, “you think I’m pretty.”

“Mmmm, very. I happen to like pretty. But not enough to eat your foundation, Greedo,” and he rolls his hips into Jean’s and it’s-- well, it’s--

He’s drunker than he thought he was since even after all this kissing and touching and looking all evening long, he’s only got about a half-chub. But it’s the thought that counts, so he grabs broad shoulders - have they always been this strong? He supposes carrying a laptop to class every day would help but - and pins Marco against the wall. Kisses him again, deep and sloppy, missing his mouth when the giddy buzz from being too drunk and too happy makes Jean grin.

Especially when a warm and sure hand sneaks down to the front of his pants. He sucks in a sharp breath at the contact, feels his face heat up as fingers wrap carefully, expertly around his half-hard dick and give it a steady stroke. 

“Billy? Your car’s parked in the way and--”

The voice is familiar. Jean feels his companion break the kiss, and his eyes flutter open to land on the face in front of him, with dark eyes and a blunt nose and a strong jaw; then from there to a man standing in the doorway with the same features breaking apart in a slow kind of sick horror. Jean looks back at the man he’s wrapped himself around, and back again.

“I’ll be there in a second, yeah?” His Marco laughs, breathless and brave and not nearly familiar enough.

Then they’re kissing again, except there’s a little voice in the back of Jean’s head that’s making his body go cold and nauseous that reminds him he’s had a lot to drink tonight. And it reminds him of earlier, when Marco mentioned he was going to the party with his cousin; with his identical cousin, who Jean met at the doorway and called him Greedo and Spacepants.

“Wait,” and Jean yanks himself away, not really sure who he’s addressing as he flings himself out of the room. But the momentum makes his stomach turn, and Jean grabs the doorframe for support as the world spins violently around him. “Wait, please,” but the words are smothered against the palm of his free hand.

“John? Are you all right?”

He tries to say that he’s Jean, and he tries to say that he’s sorry but all he really says is “I need some fresh air” and he’s helped outside. Jean doesn’t want to look at the man he’s just felt up in the side room of someone else’s party, but when he’s pinning his cell phone as tight as he can to his ear and the guy is bringing him a glass of water, it’s rude not to.

“Sorry for-- running,” Jean manages. “I’m calling a ride home.”

“Yeah, you look kind of--” and the man - Billy, wasn’t it? - smiles awkwardly in an echo of Marco’s expression so intense Jean has to look away again. “Well, I’d say you look a little green, but…”

Jean forces a laugh but he’s shaking, he’s drunk and he’s cold and too much is happening right now for him to process. But when Billy sits down next to him and drapes his suit coat over Jean’s shoulders, he doesn’t really want to pull away.

 

* * *

 

 

Marco’s had bad days like failing an important test; he’s had really bad days like having to sit at the dinner table while relatives screamed hate at each other, or coming home to see a bright crimson stain in the driveway and hear his dog had been taken to the vet. And maybe in the big, universal scheme of things tonight isn’t that bad, but right now it feels like the worst thing he’s ever been through.

Pain is like that, though. It blocks out everything else until it consumes the person, until they can’t remember anything good that’s ever happened to them to make the pain seem less intense. For Marco, though, it sits in his stomach and coils, twists, until he’s shoving people aside because he’s shaking so badly he’s going to throw up. Like his body is too filled with agony to hold itself together and so when he runs into someone’s back he can’t even control his voice enough to apologise.

“S-sor-- I’m--”

Of all the people to run into, it had to be Boris, whose eyes are dark and serious above his bright red cheeks; at the sound of Jean’s voice in the distance, Marco flinches. Boris glances past Marco’s shoulder, and Marco could swear his face drained of color before he looks back down. A thumb rubs at Marco’s cheek, smearing dampness across his skin.

“Come with me,” and then he’s pulled by his arm around the corner, down the hall and up the stairs so fast he stumbles and feels like he left his heart back in that side room. He doesn’t care where he’s going, so long as it’s away from downstairs, where he’s terrified that Jean might catch him and then he’d have to smile and laugh and say that he was happy that Billy had moved on from his ex, that Jean was having such a good time. He’s always been a terrible liar.

It’s quieter upstairs - Marco can hear his own obnoxious breathing as he gasps, voice breaking through in little aborted, barely contained sobs as Boris’ fingers dig into his arm. He’s practically thrown into a neat, lived-in little room, and he ends up face down on the futon.

Then the door locks, and Marco numbly wonders if the worst is yet to come.

But Boris, still dressed impeccably as Draco, nudges him onto his side and fishes a nearly-full gallon jug of water under the futon. “Drink,” he mutters, and scoots an empty wastebasket closer. “I won’t have anyone get sick in my room.”

Marco sits up, spills a little of the water on himself, and takes a small drink. He doesn’t feel much better, really, especially because he’s pretty sure if he hydrates himself he’s not going to be able to stop from crying, but Boris doesn’t say anything else and takes a sip of his own.

“So the green guy. You know him?”

Marco nods.

“Does Billy know you know him?”

“I-- I don’t--”

He’s afraid to say anything more, even if he could speak. He’s afraid to dwell on the scene any more, when it burns him like fire just by knowing it happened. Afraid to think about how Billy might have known who Jean was to Marco, and just not have cared enough not to--

He doesn’t really notice that he’s hyperventilating until Boris hits him in the shoulder, hard enough it shocks him into a gasp.

“Knock it off, all right?”

Marco reaches up to touch the sore spot by instinct, his eyes still locked on the carpet below his feet. It’s dark, but he can still make out the salt-and-pepper pile. “Sorry.”

The futon shifts as Boris stands. “Fuck.” Marco watches his shadow pace the floor from the faint light filtering in through the window. “Fuck,” and the door shakes under the effort of some blow. Then there’s an awful silence, until Marco’s thoughts wander too far back and in too deep, and he folds into himself to try to muffle another sob. He feels like his heart is being slowly cut out of his chest, and he wishes he could just get it over with. Even if he doesn’t recover, even if he’s numb and cold for the rest of his life.

Anything is better than feeling second-best to his cousin again.

Boris swears again, and Marco jumps. Looks up and meets Boris’ gaze in the dark, and he shrinks back against the pillows.

“If I leave you up here, can you promise not to do something stupid?” Boris delivers these words with another little nudge of the water jug, and Marco obediently takes a sip.

“... Yes.”

Boris rises, then, and leaves Marco alone in the dark. Once he’s alone, Marco tears off most of his costume and wraps it into a little bundle - except for the borrowed apron, which he drapes across the back of the couch. Then he lays down, curls up, and closes his stinging eyes.

He sleeps, kind of - but they’re nightmares of fighting his way through fog and friendly strangers to try to talk to Jean again, but Jean won’t look him in the eyes and barely responds. Everytime he wakes up, he gasps for breath, his skin clammy to the touch, and he forces down mouthfuls of water between these miserable dreams.

Eventually he feels a hand on his shoulder shake him awake. “Hey, Marco? Boris told me you weren’t feeling well.”

It’s Billy. His skin crawls - Marco jerks away from his cousin only for nausea to sweep over him. He barely remembers to grab the wastebasket before his stomach lurches and bitter, burning fluid splatters into the bottom of the container.

“I’m… I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you last night. I only just found out now - kinda crashed on the couch downstairs. But I’m good to drive, and I bet you wanna get out of here, don’t you?" Marco forces himself to nod. "So grab your stuff and let’s go.”

Marco nods, because Billy’s right - and what else is he supposed to do? He loves his cousin, just like he-- like he might like Jean. He doesn’t have the right to be angry if they’re happy together, or even if it’s just a passing--

Further thought is interrupted by more vomiting, and Marco knows it’s more from stress than any paltry amount he drank last night, but he lets his cousin fuss over him, dump out and rinse the wastebasket in the nearby bathroom before passing it back to Marco.

“Better be quiet, guys are still sleeping.” Billy gestures down the stairs, and Marco can’t help but scan the side of his cousin’s neck for bruises. He thinks he might see one and jerks his gaze away, stumbles on one of the stairs and catches himself, closing his eyes tightly.

A warm hand touches him on the arm, and he can feel tears welling behind his eyes. “‘m fine,” he rasps, grasping Billy’s hand and lacing their fingers together. He follows his cousin along, wading their way through masses of dozing young adults in little clumps on whatever they could find that was soft. There’s no messy green mohawk in their midst.

Marco dry heaves in the lawn once they make it outside, digging his fingers into the dew wet grass, down to the soil. He looks up and sees the early dawn sky, still grey-blue in some places but shot through with warm pink and gold, and he scrubs off his face with his sleeve. It’s enough to just be friends, isn’t it? That’s all he needed, right? All he wanted?

“You ok?”

He hates to lie. He’s always been bad at it, especially to family members. So when Billy kneels down in front of him, dark hair a sweaty mess and bags under bloodshot eyes, he tells the truth.

“Not really. I don’t… want to talk about it, though. Or talk at all. Can you take me home?”

“I--” Billy reaches out, hesitates, then lays his hand on the top of Marco’s head, pushing his bangs out of the way with his thumb. “Yeah. Okay. But if it’s serious, you talk to me, okay? No matter what it is. I won’t judge you or--”

“I’ll be fine,” and he ducks out of his cousin’s touch. “Just… I just want to go home.”

Billy rises, then, with a little sigh of effort, and Marco wipes his face on his sleeve before following. His entire body is shaking and he clenches his jaw to stop his teeth from clicking. He checks his phone for a wretched second and-- 

[Missed Call]  
Jean

 [Missed Call]  
Billy (2)

 Text: Billy  
_Hey, where are you?_

 Text: Jean  
_mrco shti im sorr_

[Missed Call]  
Jean (2)

 

He shoves the device back in his pocket, hands shaking as he folds them into fists, hides them from view as well. Marco can feel Billy’s pitying gaze on him, but he doesn’t have the strength to give his cousin a reassuring smile. He just presses his forehead to the cold glass of the passenger side window of the car when he buckles himself in and they drive away.

Once they’re home, Marco drags the stolen trashcan into his room along with a glass of water and locks the door. His hands are shaking violently as he types a reply to Jean’s barely legible text from the previous night.

 

 _hey sorry to run off like  
_ _that! i was feeling kind of  
_ _sick and I needed to go_  
_lay down. anyway just_  
_wanted to let u know_  
_i got home safe and_  
_i hope you did too!_

_also_

 

Marco has to set his phone to the side for a moment, taking a sip of water as his teeth and fighting to keep his voice down as another miserable sob leaves his throat raw.

 

 _also you should probably  
text billy soon. he seems  
__happier than he has in a  
__while and im glad you  
__guys hit it off so well!_  

_here’s his number.  
good luck!_

_[Contact Info Sent]_

 

He tries to tell himself it’s like a band-aid, better to rip it off now and get it over with then draw it out. So he crawls into bed with his laptop and leaves his phone facedown and silent on the floor and refuses to touch it, withdrawing as deep as he can into himself and away from cold, bitter reality until he falls asleep with headphones still in.

 

* * *

 

Everytime Jean checks his text messages and sees Marco’s name on the list, it stings - in the literal sense, too, like reaching your hands into the grass only to be pricked by a hidden thorn. Jean’s not good with his words, though he spent most of Sunday writing up drafts for apology messages and sending none of them. He used to pull this shit in high school - get way too drunk, forget what kind of person he was and in what kind of town, and wake up feeling absolutely trashed.  If he was lucky.

But it’s not until Jean gets to their horticulture class on Monday that he really feels like giving up. He may not really know the seating chart, but he can tell immediately in the loud, clustered classroom that Marco’s seat is empty. And it stays empty for all of class. Jean’s so tense he can’t even focus on a movie and just watches his own reflection in the laptop screen until the rustle of bags signals him it’s time to leave.

Then he texts Billy a time and a place for coffee and settles himself down to wait outside the little cafe. It’s an unseasonably warm and cloudy day, in the 50s, and Jean wants to take advantage of some of the last late-fall sunshine before November really kicks in.

It doesn’t seem like Marco really liked him much, anyway. Not with his hesitance to speak to him directly, not with this now and all the times two nights before everything inside Jean had begged for Marco to kiss him but he’d just never taken the plunge. He probably isn’t even gay anyway. And he’s obviously not interested now, not with the way he encouraged Jean to go out with Billy. Never mind how Marco had brightened up whenever he'd enter the classroom, never mind how he'd slowly opened up to Jean in the kitchen

All these thoughts buzz in his head like miserable, persistent mosquitos but he still feels his heart pick up when he sees Billy walking his way. The similarity between the two is uncanny - they’re like carbon copies of each other, except one has freckles and the other one has glasses. Little arbitrary aesthetic differences that blur away into nothing from a distance.

“Hey, Greedo,” Billy greets him with a bright smile and the name Jean had introduced himself with via text message. His warmth coaxes a similar expression onto Jean’s face, and he holds that dark brown gaze as Billy sits down. “You’ve still got a little bit of green in your hair-- near the roots, I mean,” and Jean scratches his scalp, self conscious, as Billy continues. “So, how are you?”

“Good. Fine. I’m, um… “ Jean glances away, across the street to the sidewalk where strangers flows in a never-ending river of foot traffic. “A little behind on school after spending all of Sunday in bed nursing a hangover.”

“Oh no,” Billy croons, a touch of laughter in his voice. “Well, you know what you need to do? Stay more hydrated as you drink.”

Jean forces a laugh as Billy grins at him. “Yes, Mom.”

“Hmm, I’d personally rather go by Daddy, but whatever floats your boat.”

If Jean had been drinking something, he feels like he probably would have done a dramatic spit-take; this time, the laughter is genuine, even if it’s more from shock than delight. “Wow.”

“Too much? I’m sorry. I’m a little, um, out of practice with this.” And then he smiles again, shy and blushing and ernest, and Jean has to look away. It's uncanny.

“Eh, it’s fine. Just a little, um…. unexpected. Nothing I’m, uh…” Jean lets the thought peter out and die. Yeah, they might have made it to second base last night but it’s too early for kink talk. Too early in the day, if nothing else. “Anyway. Do you wanna get something to drink here, or?”

“Actually, I, uh…” Billy fidgets with his glasses. “I work here?”

“Oh. Sorry, do you want--”

“--well, here’s fine if _you_ want something. Like, _I’m_ good. I take home free coffee at closing time every day, so.” He shrugs. “I know how to make all the weird stuff, like the undertow.”

“Undertow?”

“Yeah. You take your flavored syrup and you mix it with some milk in a tall glass, yeah? And then you just kind of… float a shot or two of espresso on top. It’s like a shot and a chaser together, so you drink it really fast. Wanna try it? I’m not on shift, but I could see if they’d let me make it for you.”

Jean stops himself in the middle of checking his phone - he knows who he’d really rather be doing this with, can see that person in the outline of Billy’s cautious smile. But of the two of them, of these carbon copies, this is the one who wants him now. So Jean pulls his hand, empty, out of his pocket, and stands.

“Lead the way.”

The little coffee-shop is a different one than his usual haunt - which was a deliberate choice, since Jean rather coldly remembers how he stopped being able to order burgers from one of his favorite joints after a rather nasty break-up - so Jean is absorbed in taking in the menu as Billy haggles with the barista behind the counter. Most of the names are puns, and he can’t say he dislikes them. Living in the Mo-Mint, Meet Your Mocha, Heart Pump-kin Spice…

“I’m in. It’ll just be a second,” and Billy ties an apron around his waist. Jean nods and moves on to staring at the pastries - and through the glass, watching Billy. From the back, they don’t look a thing alike - Billy’s movements are sure, confident, and skilled. His shoulders are a little broader, maybe, and his dark brown hair isn’t parted down the middle like--

Jean shakes his head and watches Billy, all pretenses gone and his eyes obviously heavy on Billy’s back. But rather than shrink under Jean’s attention, the off-duty barista surges, passing the occasional look over his shoulder to be assured that Jean’s watching. And Jean smiles, thinks of kissing him again, then gets distracted by the menu once more.

Eventually Billy re-emerges with two drinks in hand - Jean tosses it back, wincing as it burns the inside of his mouth, but the rush of sweet, cold milk soothes just as quickly. Billy’s eyes flick up when Jean finishes and shivers from the mixed sensation.

“Good?”

“Pretty good. Wanna walk around? I imagine you don’t wanna chill here since…”

Billy chuckles, passes the apron back across the counter, and takes Jean’s empty cup. “Lead the way.”

They end up wandering around outside the student Union for a while, until they come across a little sitting area tucked out of the way. It’s as close to isolated as they’ll get without entering one of the actual buildings, so they sit and Jean listens to Billy talk. A lot.

At first it’s fine, since it’s interesting stuff - he’s an aspiring journalist and he keeps his finger on the pulse of current media. Not just the headlines, but “why they chose to have the headlines they do, you know? Fear sells, fear gets people's attention - if people weren’t afraid, they wouldn’t want to watch the news nearly as often as they do. I mean, think about it. Do you watch the weather channel like a hawk when there’s a tornado watch, or when it’s seventy degrees and sunny?” 

Jean thinks back to his first meeting with Marco and grimaces. “I don’t really watch the weather,” he confesses, “but I see your point.”

But even though he doesn’t have anything due tomorrow in class, and even though Billy’s a lively and attractive conversationalist, Jean still finds himself searching that face for someone else’s features. And Jean knows that no one deserves this; no one ever should be a consolation prize, a replacement for someone else you can’t have.

So when Billy finishes his story which started with a discussion on Charlie Sheen and ended somehow in the vague territory of Ronald Reagan, Jean breaks his silence.

“Listen, I… I should probably be heading home.”

“Oh. Oh of course, I’m sorry,” and Billy leans back on the bench, fidgeting with his glasses again. “I didn’t mean to talk so much.”

“It’s fine. I, uh…”

“But I’d like to see you again, John.”

“ _Jean_.” He stares at the sidewalk, setting his jaw and glancing up when Billy frowns.

“ _Zhhhahn_? Can you spell that?”

“J… J-e-a-n. Jean.”

At least he owes Billy this much - hurt though it might to sit there and watch realization spread across a semi-familiar face.

“ _Zhhahn. Gene._ Star Wars. Oh--” and the blood drains from Billy’s face when he finally meets Jean’s eyes again. “Oh god. Oh… oh no.”

“I’m sorry, man, I…” Even though he’s still wearing his coat, Jean feels very cold and very, very small. He can’t imagine how something like this must feel, and honestly? He really, really doesn’t want to. It was bad enough being second best in a competition or a video game; what must it be like to be “I was just super drunk. You know?”

The distinct slam of a fist on wood shatters Jean’s self-absorbed guilt, and he looks up, startled, at Billy. There’s a hot, wet glimmer in his eyes behind the glasses, and Jean leans away, ever so slightly.

“Are you--”

“I’m fine,” Billy cuts him off, pulling his glasses off his nose and rubbing the indents they left in his skin. If it was under different circumstances, Jean might have made a joke about how Billy doesn’t look very fine, but even he can read a situation on occasion. Billy closes his eyes and breathes in, slowly, through his nose.

“It was Marco, wasn’t it?" Billy ventures at last. "That’s who you…”

Jean figures his silence is answer enough; it stretches out between them until Billy sighs and rises from the bench.

“Thank you... for today. I had a nice time.” His words rings a little hollow, even as he lays his hand on Jean’s shoulder and places the glasses back on his nose. “But I have to go home and make things right. And you…”

Billy lets go, shoving as Jean’s shoulder when he releases him. “You better do that, too. Not for me. For Marco.”

 

* * *

 

Marco looks at the recently viewed items in his shared Netflix account with Billy, sees a host of shows he's never seen - American Dad, Aziz Ansari: Live From Madison Square Garden, Bob's Burger's - and closes the tab. The reminder that their lives are so entwined, right now, hurts more than anything else. That their interests, their living spaces, their everythings run so parallel until they’re almost one person, until Billy’s outgoing personality overshadows Marco that he feels suffocated, and he wraps his arms around his pillow even tighter.

He didn’t even fight for the bigger bedroom; he just tucked his little twin mattress and hand-me-down desk into the space, reasoning that he’d probably never bring a sexual partner home anyway so why would he need the extra space? Why should he ask for such a luxury, when Billy probably would use it better? Even if it had been his apartment in the first place, and Billy has needed a place midway through Marco's spring semester.

Billy hadn’t pressed him much for details when Marco had called today a sick day - he’d stopped by Marco’s closed door twice, once before he left for his own classes to bring Marco a huge glass of water, and again between classes when he came home to shower before his date. The mere knowledge that sometime in the near future Billy might be finding a use for his double bed made Marco too sick to eat the bagel Billy had brought home for him.

By now, though, the hollow feeling in his chest only echoes the one in his stomach, and he picks at a tiny bowl of Goldfish crackers as he tries to distract himself with working ahead on homework. It’s something he can do, at least, that makes him feel less guilty for skipping class today. But the sound of the front door and Billy’s voice just makes him freeze up again, and he feels as though all his progress today is for nothing. Hours of trying to crawl out of a deep pit, undone in one scraping, painful slide backwards.

Then the door to his bedroom opens, and Marco’s back hits the mattress as someone tackles him in a hug.

It’s Billy.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Marco?” His cousin demands, his glasses digging into the side of Marco's neck.

“T-tell you what?” But his voice is a wreck, hoarse from miserable thoughts and a lack of water all day. And Billy squeezes him tighter, words uttered so close to his shoulder he more feels them then hears them.

“ _John. Gene._ You knew as soon as you saw, didn’t you? So why didn’t you say something?”

“I--” Taking in a breath feels like inhaling knives, but even now he still loves his cousin. “It wasn’t-- it’s not-- I saw how much losing your fiance hurt you. H-how… how could I say anything? If he likes-- if he-- he’s not mine to give or take like that.” Tears run down the side of his face as he stares at the ceiling, one of them sliding into his ear. Marco shakes his head and forces them both to sit up.

At least Billy’s eyes are just as red as Marco’s feel. “Oh, Marco. I can always get another fiance.” He forces a smile, stroking his thumbs over Marco’s shoulders. “But where am I going to get another cousin?”

Any self control, any last barriers constructed around his heart from bitterness and self-defense all come shattering down. It feels like a relief just as much as it feels like a vulnerability, and he buries his face into Billy’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to look him in the eye any longer.

“--’m s-sorry, Billy… I’m-- I’m sorry…. but I’ll be okay…. I just-want you to be happy… “

“I know. That’s what you always want.” Billy rubs his back, just like they did when they were kids together, just a few years apart in age and always together. “But what about what you really want?”

“Doesn’t matter.” Marco shakes his head, pulling himself together slowly, stitched together with his cousin’s support. “It’s… it’s not up to me.”

They’re both quiet for a while as Marco’s breathing evens out, soothed by Billy’s gentle touch. Eventually, Marco pulls away, rubbing a hand across his eyes.

“Okay. I’m okay.” He sniffs again, then offers a smile at his cousin. “Just a little… tired.”

Billy groans as he stretches, rubbing the back of his calf ruefully as he stands. “Fair enough. Get to bed, then, okay?”

Marco nods and lays back against the mattress, still in a just a shirt and boxers since this morning; Billy flips off the light and closes the door when he leaves, and Marco lets his eyelids close. He drifts, skirts on the edge of consciousness as some of the knots in his heart loosen and his pulse grows slow and steady.

Until his phone chimes a text alert, and for the first time today, Marco feels brave enough to read it.

It’s from Jean - just seeing his name is enough for Marco’s pulse to quicken, for his stomach to drop, but he reads the message anyway.

_hey_

_i dont know if you’re still_  
_awake and im not gonna_  
_make up some bullshit about_  
_giving you my homework_  
_or something_

_but i need to see you_

_can you come to our  
_ _classroom tonight?_

It still makes his hands unsteady as he replies, and it still hurts to think about Jean at all; but maybe this is something he can do. Something he can help.

 

_i’ll be there in 30_

“I thought you said you were going to bed?” Billy prompts as Marco emerges from his room, still pulling on a pair of pants. His hair’s a mess and he hasn’t showered, but if he sits around his apartment a moment longer he’ll freak and talk himself out of going at all. Even this, he wets a comb and fixes his hair haphazardly in the mirror.

“Yeah, I know. I just… gotta do something first.”

Anything Billy might say is lost when Marco closes the door, half-in his sweatshirt. He opts to jog there, trying to burn off some of the nervous, hopeful energy that’s curling around his beating heart like fragile, young vines. He’s scared, so scared, but when _hasn’t_  he been afraid of talking to someone? When hasn’t he been burned by someone who got hung up on his appearance and all the things he is not? The only thing that’s different right now is how he feels.  That, and Jean.

He gets there early, when outside the sky is still a drowsy dark grey shot through with gold and rose in the west. A few fat raindrops land on his shoulders and head as he hauls the door to the science building open to stately silence, and it’s only a couple automatic turns to his classroom. It’s not unusual for him to get there before everyone else, and he knows his seat by heart. Falling into it feels like coming home, in a way, and Marco tucks his ankles under the chair and waits for Jean.

Outside, he can hear the rain pick up. It batters at the glass windows that normally bleed faint light into the far side of the lecture hall, and he digs his fingers into his upper arms. He's never fought for anything in his life, not like this; and it's still terrifying but he wants to try. He wants to not give up this time, to cling to the shards of their broken friendship even if the pieces make him hurt. When the door to the classroom finally is thrown open, Marco jumps in his seat and forgets not to stare.

Jean is fluffing his damp hair with his free hand when his eyes catch Marco’s - he freezes, water dripping off his nose and leather jacket. Both men stare at each other for a tense, loaded moment, until Jean seems to pull himself together.

Marco leans back in his chair as Jean descends the stairs, bypassing Marco’s row to weave his way through the seats just in front of him. Then, with a dramatic, determined air, he stands squarely in from of Marco’s desk and closes his eyes.

“You don’t like it when people look at you, right?”

Marco starts to shake his head, blushes, and manages a “yeah.”

Seeming satisfied, Jean shivers and shakes a few more drops of rain onto the floor. “Then… this’ll help, won’t it?”

He studies in the tense lines of Jean’s mouth, the way his blond hair sticks to the back of his fingers in some places, the bob of his adam’s apple as he swallows. Is this Jean's way of fighting as well?

“Yeah. Yeah, I think it helps.”

Jean takes in a deep breath. The fingertips of his free hand reach out and, with some fumbling, alight on the edge of Marco’s desk. “I… I’m really sorry for Saturday night. I got really nervous, and then I got really drunk, and-- it’s my fault. Not… not your cousin’s.”

Marco’s eyes dart down to where Jean’s hand perches, and cautiously slides his own hand across the desk in that direction.

“What I did, I--I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to do it, and... I know that doesn’t make it any less shitty, but it’s--” Jean swallows, fingers tensing on the surface of the desk until he’s gripping the edge like he’s holding on for dear life. “It’s not him that I like. And even if you can’t forgive me, I just… I just wanted you to know. That if I had the right to make a choice, I’d want to be with you.”

Thus finished, Jean lets out a small breath and waits. Marco looks back down at their hands, mere inches apart. He’d said, earlier, that being with Jean wasn’t up to him; but maybe, on some level, it was. They had both chosen to come here tonight, to try to make things right. Maybe it wasn’t up to any one person, but--

“Can you just-- say something? So I know you didn’t leave in the middle of that?” Jean shifts his weight, looking very wet and very miserable, and something warm loosens in the middle of Marco’s chest. Standing up, he leans forward, grabs the back of Jean’s neck - feels the dampness of the rain, the heat of Jean’s skin and the prickle of his hair against his fingertips - and kisses him.

It’s light and close-mouthed and Marco’s a little bit off target, but Jean doesn’t jerk away. And yet, even this, when Jean’s lips are cool and wet with the rain, it feels like so much; feels like forgiveness, like a new start. He’s kissed so few people in his lifetime it can’t be very good, but for that fleeting moment he doesn’t care how he ranks against anyone else. Jean is here, with him, and that’s all that matters.

Marco releases him almost instantly, but doesn’t pull back; just kind of lingers, nervously, in Jean’s personal space. Slowly, fingers part and one light-brown eye regards Marco. From this close, he can see flecks of gold in Jean’s iris.

“Sorry," Jean starts, "I’m a little paranoid about kissing the wrong guy these days.” As soon as he says this, his face contorts with a flinch and a hot, distress flush spreads across his face. “Shit.”

“No, it’s okay-- if… if you look, I mean. A little bit.” Marco hesitantly tugs at Jean’s wrist, the one that’s helping cover his eyes, but he still has a little trouble meeting Jean’s gaze when Jean lowers his hand.

Glancing down to their conjoined hands when Jean laces their fingers together is a good excuse not to look up, anyway.

“Can-- Can I kiss you, too?”

“Yeah,” and Marco can feel the heat radiating off his own freckled, blemished cheeks. “If you want.”

And he does.

  

 

 


End file.
